Deathwatch
by Wilusa
Summary: Methos receives bad news about a woman who'd been his lover; and everything he learns subsequently is more alarming. This fic is a prequel to the film "Highlander: Endgame"; I'm posting it in the TV category because it's also part of my main HL universe, which is based primarily on the series.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I assume _Highlander _and its canon characters are still the property of Davis/Panzer Productions or a successor company; no copyright infringement is intended.

_**Introductory Note:**__ I doubt there's any Highlander fan who accepts everything the producers gave us as canon. After the release of __**Endgame**__, I decided I would think of it as canon. But I gave it quite a few tweaks, through fan fiction! And I wrote fics intended to provide answers (strictly my own) to many questions it had left unanswered._

_"Death of the Dream" is a prequel that explains, among other things, how Methos first met Connor. "Survivor" is a mini-novelization of the film (including those "tweaks"). "There Need Be Only One" and "Land of My Birth" are followups; I may write one more. This fic is intended to answer two big remaining questions: When and how did Methos learn about the Sanctuary? And how the heck had the Watchers managed it before they had modern medical capabilities?_

_I wrote the first chapter of this fic, and laid it aside for some reason, years ago. So many years ago that I've found notes, dated __**2003**__, in which I lamented that I'd been away from it so long that I'd forgotten my plan for Chapter 2! But I came back to it recently; and when I resumed really thinking about it, I had no problems with the ending. (I'd never intended more than two chapters.)_

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_**Paris, September 1992.**_

_He wouldn't kill me, _Methos told himself firmly. _Or set me up. He's my friend._

But he still ignored the jangling of the doorbell till he'd finished loading his gun.

He stuffed the gun in a pocket and gave his flat another once-over. _If my cover isn't blown, I don't want to blow it now_.

He quickly confirmed that everything Adam Pierson shouldn't be able to afford - or couldn't plausibly possess - had been safely stowed. A glance into his bedroom assured him that the bedspread hung down far enough to conceal the hastily packed suitcase.

A suitcase that contained no clothes or conventional valuables, but was filled almost to bursting with his secret journals.

Conscious of the thinness of the walls, he provided an excuse for his tardiness by ducking into the bathroom and flushing. Thorough as ever, he washed his hands and sprayed the room with scented air freshener.

Then he hurried to the door. "Come in, Don! Sorry about the delay, you caught me in the loo." He didn't try to sound casual. Salzer's voice on the phone had been tense and anxious; nervousness on his part would be expected, even if he had nothing to hide.

He had a great deal. He'd always been aware his pose as an earnest young Watcher was fraught with danger. If the Society learned he was an Immortal, they'd try to kill him - unless they realized his true identity. He was sure they were too devoted to history to knowingly kill the oldest of his kind, the five-thousand-year-old Methos. But if they didn't know who he was and he tried to tell them, they'd never believe him.

_Even if they did accept that I'm Methos, they wouldn't let me walk away. _He shuddered at a particularly grim thought. _I might end up wishing they __**had**__ killed me._

Salzer seemed genuinely to like him. So for years now, he'd hoped that if any part of his secret came out, his elderly mentor would warn him and give him a chance to escape.

Salzer's call an hour ago had been deeply disturbing. In a shaky voice, he'd said he needed to see Adam immediately. And when Methos offered to drive over to the Watcher-owned bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, he'd insisted on coming to his place instead.

_Was he afraid to speak freely on the phone? Actually trying to give me a chance to pack, so I could take off quickly?_

His guest was making small talk, attempting to put him at his ease. But he was noticeably pale.

Methos led him into his combination living room and study, then decided to get to the point. "I know something's wrong, Don. Have I screwed up? Missed an obvious clue about Methos that someone else has found?" _If so, I hope it was a bum steer_.

Salzer looked surprised. "No, no, Adam! Nothing like that. You aren't in any trouble." He sighed. "But I do have bad news. Don't know how much it'll affect you, after all this time. But I didn't want you to hear it and then have to drive."

Methos felt a sudden chill. "After...all this time?" His eyes strayed to a framed photo on his desk.

Salzer's gaze followed his, and the gray-haired man winced. "Yes. I'm so sorry, Adam. It is Megan. I know you were close -"

"We were _lovers_, damn it," Methos said bluntly. "Lived together for over three years, talked about marriage. Wh-what's happened to her?"

"There's no easy way to say this. She's...dead."

Methos sank into a chair. Closed his eyes and sat very still. His heart was pounding.

_She'd be twenty-seven years old now. _

_Twenty-seven._

He was dimly aware of Salzer's laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, and moments later, bringing him a glass of water.

He accepted the water and took a few sips. Then he looked up at his Watcher supervisor and blurted out, "That damn super-secret assignment was supposed to be safe! How did it get her killed?"

"The assignment _was_ safe," Salzer told him. "I still don't know what it was or where it was, except that it was somewhere in the States. But it had nothing to do with her death.

"I know you feel like you need to blame someone, Adam. But she died in an auto accident. Lost control of her car in the rain, on some rutty country road. It could have happened anywhere."

"She wouldn't have been on a rutty country road in Paris." Realizing it wasn't Salzer's fault, he reined in his temper and said bleakly, "But now I know why you didn't want me to have to drive. Thanks, Don."

"No thanks required," his friend assured him. "Ah...I don't suppose you've heard anything from her since she left? I was as curious as you were about her assignment."

"No. Not a word, in two years." Methos stared down at his clenched fists. "But that was to be expected. After they gave us those personality tests, they said they'd been checking for total loyalty to the Watchers and concern for the good of humanity, _above all else_. All else meaning family and friends...and lovers."

"They were interested in a few other things, too," Salzer said gently. "They told me you'd flunked on one of the other things. Probable willingness to give your all to a job that could be very unpleasant, and also very boring. That doesn't sound like it could get anyone killed."

"No, it doesn't," Methos admitted, recalling how he'd agonized over that test. It had been given to all the young Watchers who weren't seeking active field assignments. He was capable of making his test results indicate any personality type he wanted; but he hadn't known what the Watcher Tribunal was looking for, or why.

His thoughts returned to the here and now. "Do you know if she suffered?"

"She didn't. We were told she died instantly."

"I'm glad of that." His fingernails dug into his palms. "Have you heard anything about the funeral, the burial?"

Salzer nodded. "Don't have the times yet, but she's going to be buried in California, where her parents live. Would you like to fly over? I'll gladly go with you."

"Y-yes. Maybe that will make it seem more real."

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After Salzer left he sat staring at the photo. It captured the basics: a strong, square face, periwinkle-blue eyes, hair like burnished copper. But it didn't do justice to all Megan Farrell had been. When he laid it aside and let his imagination soar, he could see the sparkle in those mischievous eyes, hear her startlingly raucous laugh, feel that silken hair cascading around him as she pinned him down in their bed.

When they met, he'd been impressed with her skills as a researcher. He'd known that if any Watcher had the perseverance to find some lost medieval sketch of Methos, she'd be the one. So he'd told himself, only half in jest, that winning her heart would be a better option than possibly having to kill her.

With her as with Salzer, he'd hoped that if a choice had to be made, loyalty to him would win out over allegiance to the Watchers. But he hadn't felt confident enough to share any secrets. And while he and Megan had indeed talked about marriage, he was the one who'd balked. If he hadn't, she might not have accepted that special assignment.

And yet, in his own way, he had loved her.

He walked heavily into the bedroom. Stared at his bed, and realized that sleeping in it would be out of the question, at least until after the funeral.

But sleep was the furthest thing from his mind now. He hauled the suitcase out, retrieved the current volume of his journal, and carried it back to his desk.

It wasn't the journal that interested him, but the fat envelope that tumbled out when he shook it. An envelope addressed to him in a bold hand, mailed - in December 1990 - from New York City.

He hadn't been completely honest with Salzer.

_When am I ever completely honest with anyone?_

He hadn't confided in Megan. But she'd broken a vow to tell him the details of her special assignment.

_"Dear Adam," _the letter began, _"I'm not putting a return address on this, and you mustn't try to reach me. My writing to you is dangerous enough. But I can't keep silent about what's going on here. It changes everything..."_

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_**An hour's drive from New York, September 1990.**_

"Your new home is just around the next bend," Matthew Hale told the three novice Watchers crammed into his small car. "Don't expect anything fancy in the way of living quarters - remember, it used to be a Capuchin monastery. Holy ground, if any of you are nervous about Immortals. They wouldn't harm even a mortal here."

Megan sniffed. She suspected her fellow recruits had refused field assignments because they feared being caught and killed by the Immortals they'd sworn to Watch. But she was completely fearless. She just happened to be a history buff.

And she'd had her fill of Matthew's superior attitude. She knew for a fact that the slim, intense-looking man who'd met them at the airport was no older than she. He'd been tapped for the Sanctuary Cadre at twenty-two not because of any special ability, but because an older Watcher had died of a heart attack. She, Brian Kirk, and Gerard Roget were replacing a man and two women who'd taken scheduled retirements.

She wished she could trust Matthew's claim that the Cadre was the most critically important branch of the Watchers. But she believed he would have convinced himself of the super-importance of any unit to which he was assigned.

"We really are going to see Immortals here?" she asked him. "Old ones?"

He smiled - an enigmatic smile that reminded her in some ways of Adam. "Oh yes, old ones. They'll be quite old enough to suit you."

She was about to probe for more details when that bend appeared in the road. Matthew whipped the car around it, announcing proudly, "The Sanctuary!"

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Brian and Gerard gulped, then began groping - desperately, it seemed - for words to express admiration. Megan could have helped them, but decided to keep her mouth shut. She had no interest in buttering up Matthew.

What lay before them was about as she'd expected. The still-distant building was of gray stone; it gave the impression of being long and low, though she guessed there were three stories. Architecturally, it was a hodgepodge. Grecian columns caught the eye at once, but as they drew closer, the place had more of a pseudo-Medieval Gothic look. It was badly rundown; the present occupants must think holy men would be unconcerned with such things.

She'd originally hoped the Capuchins had built on high enough ground to have a view of the Hudson River, which couldn't be far away. But Matthew had shot that hope down before they left New York. "Believe me, you wouldn't want it. You'd have to look at the railroad that runs along the bank, too."

In fact, the only evidence of their being elevated above a valley floor was the terraced landscape. If the peaks of the Catskills were ever visible, they were currently veiled in fog.

The monastery grounds seemed better cared for than the structure itself. The lawns were well-kept, if on the brown side, and patches of marigolds and late-season pansies relieved the general drabness.

But she forgot building and gardens when two figures emerged from behind a clump of trees. Probably men, by their height - walking piously with heads bowed, clad in the brown robes and cowls of monks. If they heard the approaching car, they ignored it. As they entered the monastery, a third exited through another door. He glanced toward the road, and gave an ever-so-slight nod of recognition and acknowledgment before continuing on his way.

Brian and Gerard had fallen silent; like Megan, they were leaning forward in their seats, straining to glimpse the faces under those concealing hoods.

All three sat back, deflated, when Matthew said with a hint of amusement, "Watchers. Just like us."

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An hour later Megan was hurriedly changing her clothes in the room - or, more properly, monk's cell - that would be hers. To her relief, it had been modernized to include its own toilet, handbasin, and shower stall. And the last occupant, another woman, had tried to make it homelike. The walls, fortunately plaster rather than stone, were painted robin's-egg blue; the number of small holes attested to the hanging of a great many pictures.

Pictures of what? Megan couldn't guess. She'd been told the Cadre was a near-lifelong commitment, with retirement delayed till the Watcher's mid-seventies._ All hope of children or grandchildren abandon, ye who enter here._

Matthew had told the new recruits to change and freshen up if they wanted to; but that was strictly for their own comfort. Dress was casual. And the monks' robes they'd find hanging in their rooms were disguises to be donned only when they went outdoors. "That goes for you too," he'd told Megan. "No outsider will ever get a close enough look to see you're a woman."

The three new arrivals had chosen to receive their orientation and tour of the facilities before rather than after dinner. Megan was so eager that she would willingly have skipped the shower-and-change. But the men, badly in need of shaves, had overruled her.

She assumed, based on hints she'd been given, that she understood the purpose of the Sanctuary and the Cadre. The former monastery was home to a group of Immortals who'd chosen to live on holy ground, safe from harm or the need to kill. The Watchers had agreed to help them by providing personnel who would make any necessary trips_ off_ holy ground, and generally act as liaison with the outside world. It was possible none of the Immortals spoke English.

She was puzzled as to how women could fit in, if even they had to pose publicly as monks. She'd thought before her arrival that she might be explained as a lay office employee, an occasional spokesperson. But if only monks were supposed to be here, women must be used solely as companions for the Immortals. Interpreters, perhaps? Her language skills were good.

For an instant, she thought of the possibility that the "companionship" she'd be expected to provide - for Immortals or other Watchers - was sexual. But she rejected it at once. The Watchers were a deadly serious, austere bunch; they'd have none of that.

Back in Paris, she'd gradually realized that almost any mentor other than Don Salzer would have frowned on her relationship with Adam. Not for moral reasons, but because it was a distraction for both of them.

She might in fact be the only Watcher here who wasn't a virgin - and content to die one.

No, the Sanctuary would host no orgies.

Its purpose was far more shocking.

This kind of cooperation between Watchers and Immortals violated the ban on interference that Megan had been taught was crucial to the Society's mission. When she was offered assignment to the Cadre, she'd feared she was being approached by renegades. She hadn't been convinced otherwise until the head of the Tribunal personally reassured her.

While she was surprised that the Sanctuary had ever been authorized, she was also thrilled. She could picture herself working in the garden beside some centuries-old Immortal, picking his brain, learning what it had really been like to cross the Rubicon with Caesar, or attend the first performance of a Shakespeare play, or hear Lincoln deliver the Gettysburg Address...

Of course, the ultimate dream for any Watcher would be to pick the brain of Methos. But she knew he'd never permit it.

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Comfortably attired in sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, she pulled her hair back in a ponytail as she walked down the corridor. She found herself wondering whether the current residents actually worked at making the place dark and depressing, or had inherited it in that condition and didn't even notice.

_Wonder if they'd mind if I suggested installing a few more lights? Or better yet, windows? _

She forgot that train of thought when she met up with Brian and Gerard. As the threesome neared what Matthew had indicated would be the briefing room, they could barely contain their excitement.

Brian said, "Hey, I know you couldn't mention any of this to that boyfriend of yours. Pierson, right? But what's he been saying about Methos lately? Any chance the old-timer could be hiding out in a place like this?"

Megan shook her head, smiling. "Not unless he's almost as much of a newbie as we are, and not planning to stay long. Adam says he believes Methos relocates more often than most Immortals. Never stays put longer than a year or two."

They were met at the door by Matthew, who seemed to be everywhere. But this time he was prepared to introduce them to his jeans-clad boss, Gary Lundquist. The head of the Cadre was a tall, dark-haired, tough-looking man, probably no older than his early thirties. Megan guessed he'd been newly promoted in the wake of those retirements.

_And I'll bet he can feel Matthew breathing down his neck._

But Lundquist seemed confident and very much in command as he greeted the newcomers. "Welcome to the most fulfilling job you could ever have," he said with a smile. "You may be guaranteeing the safety of the world."

Megan saw her companions' eyebrows shoot up. She hoped she was doing a better job of masking her skepticism.

"I'll explain that," Lundquist continued genially. "Come in and sit down." He stepped aside, and they filed into what was obviously a former chapel. Megan was mildly amused as they settled themselves in the front pew.

Matthew sat beside them, with the air of a man who intended to grade his boss's presentation.

Lundquist perched on the altar railing. "To begin with, you'll need to know more about the Sanctuary. It's existed for almost exactly a thousand years." He grinned as three mouths opened at once. "No, of course it wasn't _here_ all that time. It was moved from France, for safety, during World War II. But it's always been on holy ground."

The grin faded. "All ten of our guests have been with us from the beginning," he continued. "We think there may have been mystical significance in the number ten."

Megan felt the first stirring of unease.

_A thousand years. So they couldn't have been in Shakespeare's London, or at Gettysburg._

_But...how could anyone endure hiding out in a fake monastery, with the same nine companions, for __**a thousand years?**_

_And why is he saying "we think" the number ten may have been significant? If Watcher records don't make it clear, why hasn't he asked the Immortals?_

Matthew spoke up and said officiously, "The number ten is important because every human has ten fingers. Also, the earliest Roman calendar had ten months. And I've read claims that astrologers once used a ten-sign zodiac."

Lundquist pointedly ignored him. "These heroic Immortals entered into a pact with the Watchers," he explained, "based on a shared concern for the future of humanity. Our organization has pledged to protect them. And they've enabled us to guarantee that the Game will never be played to its completion, never produce an invincible tyrant who could enslave our people. There will never be one surviving Immortal with the power of all!"

The three newcomers gasped.

But while the men were struck speechless, Megan was on her feet in an instant, pinning Lundquist with her gaze. "Let's see if I have this right," she said carefully. "No Gathering can be complete without these ten Immortals. And we're sworn to 'protect' them. Meaning they've agreed to go unarmed?They've given up their weapons to the Watchers?

"If the Gathering takes place and they're the last ones left...what if they're overcome by blood lust? _Are we supposed to kill them all?_"

Hearing her own voice, she knew she sounded as appalled as she felt. She decided she didn't care.

"No, that's not it." Lundquist's indulgent smile failed to reassure her. "Believe me, we'll never have to behead anyone."

He too rose, with a casualness that didn't ring true. "I'm sure you've all formed ideas about the Sanctuary that are wide of the mark. We couldn't risk giving you details until you were here. At this point I think the best approach is simply to show you.

"If you follow me, I'll take you to see the Immortals."

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They left the chapel more quietly than they had entered, with a watchful Matthew bringing up the rear. Lundquist led them to a seemingly blank wall that opened at his touch to reveal an elevator. The control panel indicated it could take users to only one destination, a lower level. Much lower: Megan guessed from the length of the drop that it was equivalent to at least five floors.

They emerged into a damp, chilly cavern with walls of rough-hewn stone. The dim light - from bare bulbs strung along the ceiling in no discernible pattern - gave no clue to its size.

Lundquist strode forward, toward what seemed to be a cluster of - furnishings? Equipment?

Hesitantly, the novices followed.

They were stopped dead in their tracks by a man's agonized moan.

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"What - what is this place?" Gerard's voice rose in panic. He spun around and tried to retreat toward the elevator, but a grim-faced Matthew blocked his way.

"It takes some getting used to," Matthew said coldly. "But all our guests are here by choice."

Lundquist turned back. The eerie light cast shadows over the pallid features of the senior Watchers, and Megan, looking from one to the other, had the wild thought that she was trapped between two vampires.

The suffering man, wherever he was, moaned again.

Lundquist winced. "Our duties are sometimes unpleasant," he admitted. "The truth is that none of us like what you'll see here, what we do here.

"But the fate of the world is at stake."

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He turned away and resumed walking. Megan took a deep breath and strode after him. The others followed, but when she glanced back, she saw that Matthew was clutching the two novices and physically pushing them along.

Six more jeans-clad Watchers - three men, three women - came out of the equipment cluster to meet them. All looked uneasy. Lundquist greeted them with a nod, and they hovered near the novices as the group followed him into a large semicircle formed by metallic constructs.

Megan was the first of the novices to get a clear frontal view of those constructs.

She was also the first to scream.

The devices brought to mind a torturer's racks. A man was pinioned on each of them, at such an angle that he was more nearly standing than lying down. Wrists and ankles were secured in metal cuffs bolted to the frames; heads were held similarly immobile in bolted-down helmets, with opaque "visor" pieces that covered the captives' eyes.

Megan didn't have to count to know there were ten of them.

She somehow stayed on her feet, swaying, as her scream trailed off to a whimper.

Three of the men were clothed in drab jumpsuits that could have been prison uniforms. They were thin, but not abnormally so. They appeared to be asleep, breathing easily. But their "sleep" hadn't been disturbed by the new arrivals' outbursts, and their bodies were wracked by spasmodic twitches.

The others...

The others were in varying stages of what Megan first took to be malnutrition; then she realized it was outright starvation. Loose tunics covered distended bellies. Trembling limbs were emaciated, some nearly skeletal. Men were wheezing, retching, groaning. Three were in convulsions; two were having explosive bursts of bloody diarrhea. Megan thought some desperate victims were struggling against their restraints.

As she watched, frozen in horror, one of the convulsing men went rigid: fists clenched, mouth gaping open, head straining forward against his unyielding helmet. New sounds came from him. A growl, then a protracted, strangled _gurgle_...what she could see of his face was turning blue...

_Oh my God, he's choking on his tongue!_

She lunged forward - only to be caught and held by several pairs of strong arms. A woman's voice said softly, "Let it happen. It may seem cruel, but that's a mercifully quick death."

By the time the pinioned Immortal went limp, all three novice Watchers had fainted.

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Still unsteady, Megan leaned on Watcher Jess Mayhew's arm. She was vaguely aware Brian and Gerard were as wobbly as she was.

All three had opted to skip dinner. Megan had simply flopped in her room, too numb to think; she assumed the others had done the same. When Jess had come for them, she hadn't been able to shake the instinctive feeling that they were being taken to view the dead man laid out in his coffin.

Reason, of course, told her otherwise.

"Come closer," Jess urged. "Take a good look."

Megan let the middle-aged black woman lead her nearer what was euphemistically described as the Immortal's "reclining frame."

The man was clean, his slender form dressed in a uniform like those worn by three of his fellows. His breathing was regular. Jess loosened the bolts on his visor and lifted it, letting the novices see his closed eyes and pale but placid face. The unlined face of a man in his twenties, oblivious to the gasps and moans of nearby sufferers as he enjoyed a restful sleep.

None of the newcomers questioned that this was the same man they'd seen die in apparent agony four hours earlier. They were well aware of the recuperative powers of Immortals.

By now, however, they were also aware that Immortal Jonathan Poole would have only a brief respite before dehydration and starvation sent him spiraling toward another gruesome death.

And another and another and another. Forever.

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"I know it looks bad, sounds bad, even smells bad," Lundquist told the newcomers over coffee the next morning. They'd been encouraged to rest and have a late breakfast; now he, the three of them, and the ubiquitous Matthew were alone in the Sanctuary's cheerless dining area. "But it's not inhumane. The men are heavily sedated the whole time, as dead to the world as you'd be during surgery. Traumatic things are happening to their bodies, but they don't feel any of it."

"Some of them were struggling!" Gerard protested. He hadn't shaved, and the circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept.

Lundquist shook his head. "You saw spastic, involuntary movements. Nothing more."

"The moans -"

"People moan when they're in deep comas. It doesn't mean they're conscious."

A frowning Brian asked, "If the men are kept sedated, why didn't we see IV tubing?"

Megan didn't give Lundquist time to answer. "Why are you doing any of this?" she exploded. "It's an outrage!"

Matthew, who'd been delicately sipping his coffee, muttered, "Told you that wasn't the way to present it, Gary."

Lundquist shot an exasperated look at Matthew. Then he said patiently, "We're doing it, Megan, because the Watchers and those Immortal volunteers agreed on this procedure. There was concern a thousand years ago, as there is now, that the Gathering might be brought on by the end of the millennium, and even the best-intentioned Immortals might succumb to blood lust. These men _can't_ participate. And some of them were extremely powerful - withholding their Quickenings from the mix is important in itself."

"But that turn of a millennium didn't cause anything to happen," she argued. "This one probably won't, either. Those volunteers expected to be held for a few years, not a thousand or more -"

He shook his head. "They were never told they'd be released when the millennium was safely over. The Gathering is coming, and we need to be prepared for it. What does it matter how long we hold them, if they're unconscious?"

"It's barbaric," Megan hissed. Tears stung her eyes as she realized there was nothing she could do about it. She certainly couldn't go to the police. "Why in God's name are you allowing them to die over and over? I don't condone any of this...but even if you're determined to hold them and keep them unconscious, there's no excuse for starving them. You could feed them and give them fluids intravenously." Remembering Brian's question, she asked, "How _are_ you keeping them under, with no IV tubing?"

This time it was Matthew who answered. "Do you think IV tubing was available a thousand years ago? We're doing what our forebears did. We're following tradition, a tradition that's proved itself over the centuries - that's what our organization's all about!"

"That's right," Lundquist said earnestly. "And I've brought something to show you. A crucial part of that tradition." He spread a clean napkin on the table, took an envelope from his pocket, and almost reverently emptied its contents onto the cloth.

Megan stared. "A plant?"

More accurately, a half-dozen dried plants were strewn on the napkin. Aside from the color of their tiny leaves - mottled green and silver - they reminded her of nothing more than the wilted shamrocks her Irish grandmother had stuffed into St. Patrick's Day cards.

"A very rare plant," Lundquist explained, "native to the region of France that originally housed the Sanctuary. For some reason, it never spread to other areas.

"But it's quite hardy. We've found that it can thrive here. And it's always been possible to grow it indoors in cold weather - Watchers were doing that even when their only heat came from fireplaces." He looked from one to another of the novices, then locked eyes with Megan as he said, "The name we've given it in English is _slumberleaf_."

As the implication sank in, Megan heard two other gasps simultaneous with her own.

She found her voice and said slowly, "So this is what you use to drug the Immortals."

"Yes." Lundquist's eyes were troubled, but he spoke steadily. "The procedure's been in place for a millennium. We know the exact doses to give them - under their tongues, at eight-hour intervals. The dose is increased as a man's condition worsens.

"And they receive good care. They're removed from their restraints, undressed and bathed and their limbs exercised. One to three times a day, depending on their condition. It's always done two hours after a slumberleaf dose, when they're most heavily sedated."

Megan pounced on that. " 'Most heavily sedated'? So you think there are times when they'd be aware of being moved and bathed, but you still claim they're never in distress?"

"They're not," Lundquist said flatly.

"You're insisting on that because you have to believe it to live with yourself!"

"You're being unreasonable," Matthew cut in. "For most of the thousand years the Sanctuary has existed, there was no alternative to this procedure. And the Immortals freely agreed to it."

"There's an alternative now!" Megan contended.

"Not a realistic one!" Matthew shot back.

They were both on their feet, glaring at each other across the table.

Then Matthew took a deep breath and said more calmly, "Using slumberleaf, we're completely self-sufficient. The only supplies we order in bulk - for ourselves - are what monks would need. How could a monastery justify the medical equipment and products you'd have us use?"

That silenced her. She was fuming, but there was no disputing his point.

Gerard spoke up. "So...we're here to be...caregivers? Like nurses?" He looked as if he might be sick.

Lundquist nodded. "Yes, that's a big part of what we do. All of us. And we're also responsible for defending the Immortals in case of attack. But, no" - he anticipated the question - "there's never been one. We have no reason to think any outsider has ever learned about the Sanctuary."

He looked around, making eye contact with each of the newcomers in turn. "We're bound under pain of death to make sure it stays that way."

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x

Before the meeting broke up, Lundquist asked whether any of the newcomers were willing to begin caring for Immortals that day. "If you need more time - even a week or so - to talk with the other Watchers here and accustom yourselves to the idea, it won't be a problem."

As much to her own surprise as to everyone else's, Megan was the first to speak up. "I-I'm game. I don't like any of this, but I know it's been going on for a thousand years and I can't stop it. I may as well plunge right in, get it over with."

_And maybe find out for sure whether the Immortals are suffering._

She saw the relief in Lundquist's eyes as he gave her a warm handshake. "I'm glad you feel that way, Megan. You'll be part of a three-person team caring for a specific Immortal - at first, of course, under the guidance of an experienced colleague.

"How about joining the team assigned to Jonathan Poole? Since he just died and came back to life, that'll give you the longest stretch of time before you have to watch him go through a death."

"Fine," she said weakly.

That exchange had given Brian an idea: he asked to wait until after another Immortal had died, and begin close observation of _him_ on the day after his revival. Gerard chimed in with a similar request, and Lundquist smilingly agreed that they could both wait for newly revived Immortals.

"You'll be working with Jess Mayhew," he told Megan.

She hadn't given any thought to who might be her colleague. She already liked Jess, so now she was sure she'd made the right decision.

Or at least the most tolerable, in a situation in which no choice could be "right."

x

x

x

As it turned out, she probably couldn't have gotten through that first day without Jess's moral support.

"It feels _indecent!_" she blurted out after the especially sensitive task of washing the Immortal's limp penis. "I don't mean in a sexual sense. It's the whole thing. It's an affront to human dignity that we should be dressing, undressing, _handling_ this unconscious man who has no medical problems other than the ones we're creating!"

"I know," Jess replied in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. "Most of us have problems with it."

The older Watcher steadied herself and continued more firmly, "There's only one piece of advice I can give you - one way of coping and staying sane. Keep reminding yourself Jonathan chose this. If he believed another Immortal's taking his Quickening would be worse, we have to honor his wishes."

Megan wasn't convinced, but she managed to struggle on without breaking down.

She realized now that Jonathan was broad-shouldered and large-boned; only a lack of flesh and muscle on those bones made him appear slim. In his active life he'd probably been a sturdy, well-built man. And he'd unquestionably been handsome, with his cap of flaxen hair - a mere half-inch in length - and what she discovered were blue-gray eyes.

He seemed to be resting comfortably. She spoke to him several times - in English, since that had been his native tongue - asking him to try to squeeze her hand or open his eyes if he could hear her. There was no response, but she knew that didn't prove he couldn't hear.

She tried to keep her focus on him, a sleeping man in good condition. But the Immortals' reclining frames were so close together that she couldn't shut out the horror that surrounded her. By the time her shift ended she was shaking uncontrollably.

She didn't expect to sleep that night, but exhaustion took its toll. Her nightmares of starving Immortals were worse than the reality, and she awoke screaming, not once but three times. Jess came to check on her after the first screaming fit and sat with her for the rest of the night. "It's par for the course," her new friend said wryly.

x

x

x

The days that followed were worse.

As they worked, Jess tried to distract her from the wretchedness on all sides by telling her the histories of the Sanctuary Immortals - none of whom Megan had heard of in her days as a researcher. She soon realized Lundquist hadn't overstated the importance of safeguarding their Quickenings.

Yaakov of Sidon was a master of the occult secrets of the Kabbalah. Brennus, Talfryn and Corentin were ancient Druids. Suleiman, a black African, was a mighty sorcerer who'd renounced the use of his powers when he converted to Islam.

Sigeberht was the greatest swordsman of his day, Willem Iceheart the most feared wizard. Cesar Guerrero, despite his warlike name, was a priest known for miraculous cures. Aurel Liudolfing was a ruthless Germanic noble whose influence had made and unmade kings and popes.

And then there was Jonathan Poole...

"Jonathan isn't like the others," Jess said softly as she was sponging his face. He lay on his side, naked, with Megan massaging his back and trying not to be sickened by the now pitifully protruding shoulder blades.

At Megan's inquiring look, Jess continued, "They were all at least five hundred years old when they entered the Sanctuary. Most of them probably much older, though they don't seem to have shared their birth dates with the Watchers.

"The theory is that they'd become weary of life. Or maybe the world was changing in ways they didn't like and couldn't adjust to. Either way, we think they'd lost the will to fight, and didn't much care what happened to them at that point. They _were_ concerned about their Quickenings passing to enemies, so the Sanctuary made sense for them.

"But Jonathan really was as young as he looks, mid-twenties. He'd only been Immortal about six months."

Megan froze. "My age? Why on earth -?"

"He was Talfryn's student," Jess went on. "They came into the Sanctuary together."

"That doesn't explain it!"

"In itself, no," Jess conceded. "Talfryn could have sent him off to another teacher without telling him why."

She pried Jonathan's mouth open and examined his teeth and tongue. He made a soft gagging sound. Stroking him soothingly, she said, "I think he must have been one of those new Immortals who hate what they've become. The ones who can only see the bad aspects of it - always being an outsider, having to kill to survive. Talfryn had found him and felt obliged to teach him, but he was so world-weary that he can't have been much of a teacher. Probably communicated his own attitude to his student.

"Jonathan would have let the first enemy who challenged him take his head. Talfryn knew that, so he convinced him the Sanctuary was a better alternative."

Megan said, "I'm not sure it's better." She shuddered.

Doubtless by coincidence, a long shudder ran through Jonathan's body at the same moment.

x

x

x

To her surprise, Megan learned that neither Jess nor the other Watchers she was meeting knew how the Chronicles treated the Sanctuary Immortals. Lundquist and Matthew were the only members of the Cadre with computer access, but the Sanctuary had a library that included a bound copy of all but the most recent Chronicles. She settled in with it during one of her breaks.

Refusing to admit to herself that she had a special interest in Jonathan, she looked up the Immortals in alphabetical order. Brennus, Corentin, Guerrero, Iceheart (yes, he really was listed that way, with cross-references to "Willem" and several aliases), Liudolfing, Poole.

One entry after another recorded that the subject had disappeared in the year 990: "Presumed killed by an unknown Immortal, possibly through treachery, since very few enemies could have defeated him in a fair fight."

Then came the entry for Jonathan Poole.

"Became Immortal in the spring of 990 and disappeared in the fall of that year, along with his teacher Talfryn. No one in Britain could have defeated Talfryn in a fair fight, and the person with the best opportunity to catch him off guard was his student. We suspect Poole murdered Talfryn and dropped out of sight to evade friends of the elder Immortal. If he's still alive, he may have dangerous magical powers acquired through Talfryn's Quickening."

Megan laid her head down on the table and wept.

Then she went to Lundquist and raged over the injustice done that innocent young Immortal.

"I'm sorry," he told her kindly. "Yes, I was aware of it. The original passage was written in 990 - a 20th-century editor rewrote it in modern English, but kept the sense. I don't know whether Talfryn and Poole's Watcher actually was guessing at what happened, or knew the truth and thought this was the most plausible lie to put in the Chronicle.

"I really am sorry, Megan. But there's no way we could claim now, after all these centuries, to have found proof Poole didn't kill Talfryn.

"And...forgive me, but there isn't much harm being done. We're talking about a paragraph in an obscure Chronicle about a man who, for all practical purposes, has been dead for a thousand years."

By the time he finished, Megan had calmed down. She told him she understood.

But the slur against Jonathan still rankled.

So much so that she had to stop kidding herself.

She _cared_ about the young Immortal who'd let his teacher persuade him to throw his life away.

She cared more than any sensible Watcher should.

x

x

x

Denied nutrition, that Immortal deteriorated rapidly. His weight plummeted. His breathing became labored. His hair fell out, coming away with a washcloth passed over his head; his beard had never amounted to more than a few wisps. Jess taught Megan how to test his teeth with gloved fingers and ease the teeth out as they loosened.

His belly bloated, his skin erupted in sores, and he had attacks of bleeding from nose, ears, and rectum.

His bones became so fragile that they broke almost at a touch. Immortal healing repaired them to some degree, but they knit badly, leaving his limbs maimed and twisted.

Again and again, his Watcher nurses moistened his cracked lips and parched, swollen tongue.

"Can't we give him something to drink?" Megan begged. "Bend the rules just a little? He might be able to swallow water. Even a few sips -"

"There's no rule against it," Jess said wearily. "Not that Matthew wouldn't like one. But we've all tried that, and they never get enough down to do them any good, even in the first hours after their revival. The slumberleaf seems to affect the swallowing reflex.

"And either the slumberleaf, or their being what they are, keeps them alive longer than ordinary mortals would survive _without_ water..."

This time Jonathan's death was hastened by a broken rib's piercing his lung.

By the time it came, hastened or not, Megan felt as if she herself had taken a physical beating.

And she still didn't know whether Jonathan had suffered.

x

x

x

She watched another cycle of the Immortal's life and death. Endured the horror that surrounded her on all sides.

But as she performed her duties, a plan was taking shape in her mind.

She first broached the idea to Jess - who heard her out, then pledged her unqualified support. "Of course that would work! I'm ashamed that I've put up with this situation for years, and never thought of it."

Together, they took the suggestion to Lundquist. He needed a day to mull it over...but then he said he was on board. "We can't do something this drastic without the consent of the Tribunal, of course. I'll recommend it. But we'll have a better chance if we can say we have the approval of all the Watchers here. Or at least a majority!

"I'll schedule a meeting. But the idea was yours, Megan, so I want you to present it to the group."

She wasn't surprised. And she certainly wasn't shy.

But she knew who was likely to object.

_And I'm not sure which of us he dislikes more, Lundquist or me! Wish I could backtrack and claim the idea originated with Jess..._

_Too late now._

x

x

x

The next day, she rose to address the group gathered in the chapel. Noting that her expected adversary - Matthew, of course - was poised on the edge of his chair, ready to leap up and oppose _anything_ she suggested.

If the issue at stake was less serious, she would have been amused.

"I think most of you know," she began, "that when I learned what was being done here, I was appalled by the use of slumberleaf. I wished we could use modern, humane methods to sedate the Immortals - and nourish them, to prevent the gruesome deaths we see.

"Others pointed out that it would be hard for a monastery to justify ordering the medical supplies we'd need -"

"Not 'hard,' " Matthew said curtly. "Impossible."

She acknowledged him with a nod. "At the time, I accepted that argument. But now I've thought of a way we _can_ justify it.

"We can claim that we're acting on behalf of a Catholic charity - using donated money to purchase medical supplies that we'll ship to 'missions' in underdeveloped countries!

"Obviously, we'll only need a few kinds of medical supplies - IV tubing, and products related to intravenous sedation, feeding, and hydration. It might seem strange that we're ordering only those things. But we can pick sellers who _provide_ only those things - they won't know we aren't making other purchases elsewhere.

"Jess was a registered nurse before she became a Watcher, and she assures me we can switch the Immortals from slumberleaf to IV support without waking them."

_I wish we could wake them. Speak with them, however briefly! But I can't ask for the moon. The Tribunal would never permit it._

Several of her listeners were nodding, thoughtfully. Almost all of them looked as if they were _trying_ to convince themselves the idea would work. No one was happy with the lives they led, the deaths they Watched.

But Matthew was on his feet, shaking his head. "The medical supplies providers might see through that 'foreign missions' crap. Contact the charity we'd be claiming to represent... It's way too big a risk!"

Brian Kirk, who was rapidly emerging as Matthew's lieutenant, chimed in. "That's right. You'd never get away with it!"

"I've thought of that possibility," Megan said calmly. "There's a backup plan.

"If someone challenges us, we'll 'admit' to what we'll claim is the real truth. To put it bluntly, we'll 'wrap ourselves in the flag'!

"We'll tell them - in strictest confidence, of course - that while we're a legitimate Catholic religious order, we're also loyal Americans. And a top-secret government agency is using us to funnel aid to freedom fighters, in a country where the U.S. can't afford to be openly involved, even by providing medical assistance." She let herself grin. "The beauty of this is...even if word of it trickles back to Washington, no super-secret agency will be sure we aren't working with some other one!"

On hearing that, _everyone_ jumped to their feet. (Well, everyone but Lundquist, who was striving for the appearance of judicious impartiality.)

And all but Matthew and Brian burst into riotous applause.

x

x

x

A month later, all the tubing was in place. All the drugs, all the nutrients. The Watchers hadn't even needed to implement that "backup plan."

Megan Farrell stood beside a placidly sleeping Jonathan Poole. "No one will ever torture you again," she whispered. "No one will ever _hurt_ you again. I promise!"

_But why, oh why did you get yourself into this?_

_No matter_, she told herself. He'd made his foolish decision a thousand years ago.

_What a contrast with Methos, who so values, so __**appreciates**__ life that he's managed to survive for five thousand years..._

_**That's**__ the sort of man I could love._

x

x

x

The letter concluded, "_I want you to know all this, Adam. The Tribunal seems to think the number ten is important, and none of these Immortals can leave. So they'll probably never try to urge __**others**__ into it. But you should be aware of it - aware that while it exists, no Immortal, even Methos, can become the One._

_"As for me, I'm content to spend the rest of my working life here. That life won't be boring - if only because I've made an enemy of Matthew! If you encounter __**him**__ at any point, know that he can't be trusted. He's a dangerous man._

_"Take care..._

_"Megan"_

Before he laid it aside, Methos kissed her signature.

Not for the first time, he asked himself _why_ she'd taken the risk of telling him all this.

Was she really writing to "Adam Pierson"?

Or to...someone else?

Could she...have known...?

How many secrets had Megan Farrell taken to her grave?

With a start, he remembered she hadn't taken anything to her grave - yet.

He'd be heading to California for her funeral. Where he'd almost certainly meet Matthew Hale...

A man he was prepared to loathe.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Paris, Five Days Later.**_

Methos slogged up the stairs to his flat, let himself in, and collapsed on the couch. He'd picked up a week's mail in the downstairs hall; but he dropped it on the floor, too tired to look at it.

Virtually his entire life had been an "act," for as long as he could remember. He was so well adapted that he usually didn't find that tiring. But this week had been different. Meeting Megan's family and colleagues...having to pretend he still knew nothing about her last assignment, hadn't heard from her since she'd left Paris, hadn't heard _of_ Matthew Hale or Gary Lundquist...he'd been under a constant strain. Unsure, for the first time in years, "how to play it." How hard should he seem to be _trying_ to learn details of her assignment? Should he be too grief-stricken to care? Could a wrong decision arouse suspicions about _him?_ Jeopardize his future in Paris - even his life?

Knowing that Megan had made an enemy she believed was dangerous, he'd had to consider the possibility that she'd been murdered. She'd scored a triumph over the ambitious Hale when the Watchers adopted her idea for a more humane Sanctuary. Might Hale have killed her for revenge?

After all this time?

Matthew Hale had been...not what he'd expected. In more than one way.

He'd made "casual" inquiries of other Watchers in the last two years, and learned that just about everyone shared Megan's view of the man. Egotistical, domineering, snide. He'd been prepared for veiled digs from him. For hints that Megan wouldn't have been in the U.S. - and thus wouldn't have died - if he, Adam, had either (a) asked her to marry him, or (b) been a more adept lover.

Instead, Hale had gone out of his way to be polite. Methos hadn't sensed any difference in tone between him and Lundquist. Or any rivalry between them.

That made him, not less, but _more_ suspicious. Hale had been _acting_, as surely as he himself had.

_And no one does that without a reason._

He dozed on the couch for a few minutes. Woke with the annoying sense that he'd had a bad dream, which left him more tired than he'd been before - even though he couldn't remember it.

Sighing, he bent and picked up the stack of mail.

A blurb on the topmost envelope made clear it was an offer of yet another credit card. He tossed it back on the floor, unopened.

A travel brochure joined it.

And then he froze in shock, as he saw the handwriting on the next envelope.

Another letter from Megan!

She'd written his address in haste - the writing was almost a scrawl, but still recognizably hers. The postmark gave a place name he didn't recognize, but it was in New York State. The small town nearest the Sanctuary? And the _date_ was that of her death.

He ripped the envelope open, skimmed through the letter.

Sat on the couch till he managed to stop trembling.

Then he got to his feet, slipped the letter into a pocket, and headed out.

x

x

x

He walked the streets of Paris for two hours. Telling himself he didn't know where he was going - possibly wasn't going _anywhere_ in particular.

But all along, he really had known where he'd wind up.

_I have to tell him. If there's even the slightest danger, I have to warn him._

_And yes, I need to see him for my own sake. I need to share this with the person who's, maybe, the closest thing I have to an Immortal friend._

So he went through the gate, up the walk, and reverently entered St. Joseph's Chapel.

He had, of course, already sensed the presence of the man he sought. He would have been alarmed if he hadn't; in recent centuries, Darius was always there.

He'd be there, Methos felt sure, as long as the building stood. And he'd be somewhere in Paris as long as the city itself endured.

x

x

x

He saw Darius come out of the sacristy - making it look, briefly, as if he was coming out at that moment by chance. He couldn't have heard the chapel door open and close. And for all he knew, the Immortal he'd sensed might be accompanied by one or more mortals who had no idea what their companion _or_ the priest really was.

When he recognized Methos, he smiled, and hurried to meet him. But as he drew close - better able to see his visitor's face, in the dim light - the smile faded. He extended a hand, and as Methos gratefully shook it, he murmured, "I'm always glad to see you, my friend. But you look troubled. Let's go back to one of my private rooms, where we can have a real talk!"

Methos nodded. "Thank you, Darius." But then he took a moment to face the altar and genuflect - knowing Darius would appreciate the gesture, despite his having no illusions about the ancient Immortal's beliefs.

x

x

x

Five minutes later he was in a homey kitchen/den, sipping something Darius assured him was tea. Wishing he could exchange it for a beer.

Dropping into a chair opposite him, Darius said, "I wouldn't have risked calling you 'Methos' even in the nave of the church. And I realized I'm not sure what name you're using now. Are you still Watcher Adam Pierson?"

"Yep. I passed myself off as being only twenty when I began using this identity - dress and hairstyle can make people believe almost anything these days! So I should be able to use it for a good many more years.

"But you were right about my being troubled. And my being a Watcher has a lot to do with it -"

Seeing new alarm in the other man's eyes, he hastened to say, "No, I haven't gotten inside information about something bad having happened to anyone we both care about! But a woman I once loved, maybe _still_ loved - a fellow Watcher - died a few days ago."

"I'm sorry -"

But Methos wasn't pausing. "And since her death, I've learned things that are...downright horrifying."

x

x

x

He began by telling Darius, as succinctly as possible, what he'd known _before_ Megan's death. Darius's stunned reaction proved he'd never heard of the Sanctuary.

"Maybe I should have told you about it before," Methos said contritely. "But it didn't seem important, except for someone who hoped to become the One...or needed reassurance that the end of the millennium won't bring the Gathering. You've never struck me as being worried on that score."

"Uh, no. I expect Immortals to be around for a long time."

"I hope you're right. Anyway, last week, Don Salzer gave me the bad news about Megan..."

He described his and Salzer's trip to the U.S. for her funeral.

Darius winced. "That must have been a nightmare for you - when you were grieving, having to remember all the time not to let the people around you see how much you knew! I understand that you always have to be cautious, but this must have been...way beyond normal."

"Yes, it was. Knowing what I did - and not _more_ - was maddening. But when I got home, I found this waiting for me."

He pulled the envelope out of his pocket. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't open it - so he thrust it at Darius, and let him do it. "Another letter from Megan. Read it yourself!"

_Because, damn it, I think I'm about to cry..._

_"Dear Adam,"_ this letter began, _"Everything's going to hell here. I'm trying to get away - yes, to __**escape!**__ If they catch up with me, I'll probably be dead by the time you read this._

_"But I have to get word out. To __**you.**__ All Immortals are facing a new danger..."_

x

x

x

_**The Sanctuary, September 1992.**_

"I _told_ you this wouldn't work!" Matthew Hale was almost screaming. "Megan and her damn newfangled ideas..."

Megan was as angry as he was. "Shut up, Matthew! You know damn well that we all argued against uprooting the slumberleaf! We should have had it as a backup - I was just as adamant about that as you were. But now we don't have it, and wasting time bitching about my 'newfangled ideas' won't solve our problem."

She couldn't help wondering whether the "problem" was of his making. Would he have dared go so far - in hopes of discrediting her - as to convince the Tribunal to order the slumberleaf destroyed, then sabotage their drug order? Waiting almost two years to do it, so the mix-up in communications with their supplier wouldn't look suspicious?

Now he said, "The Tribunal knew what we were doing here, but for centuries, no one had really thought about it. Not till Megan raised a ruckus about how 'inhumane' it was. So then they got all upset and went to extremes to change things. If she'd been more _temperate_ about it, they might have been more temperate, too! Let us keep the slumberleaf -"

Gary Lundquist said wearily, "Knock it off, Matthew. This is no time for finger-pointing. Like Megan said, we're _wasting_ time."

They'd discovered they'd been shorted in their latest order, sent too little of the drug needed to keep the Immortals heavily sedated. They weren't missing much, but they couldn't afford _any_ lack of that drug.

"We can't possibly get more here by the time we'll need it," Jess Mayhew said grimly. "Even if we order by phone and have it rushed to us. Or break into the nearest hospital and steal it! That's the problem with being in the boonies - no hospital's close enough."

Megan stated - as she thought - the obvious. "So rather than risk having _all_ of them wake up at some point, causing mass confusion, we'll have to bring one back to consciousness for, maybe, ten hours or so. That's not a tragedy. We can at least be thankful they're nourished and hydrated now, so the man won't suffer while he's awake."

An older male Watcher objected. "No, there's an alternative. We could 'kill' one of them - temporarily, I mean! Smother him, maybe, while he's unconscious. And then keep him 'dead' till we've gotten the damn drug in."

While he was speaking, his suggestion was almost drowned out by cries of revulsion.

A woman said, "Maybe we should call the Tribunal and ask _them_ which way to go?"

Lundquist shook his head. "No. I'm not going to pass the buck. Or condone deliberately killing a man, even temporarily! _Letting them_ die over and over again -_ something they'd agreed to_ - was bad enough. Deliberate killing is worse, however painlessly we might do it.

"So we'll do as Megan said. Revive one of them."

Matthew, and a few others, scowled.

Lundquist took a deep breath. "Now we'll have to agree on which one."

When no one else spoke up, Megan did. "I vote for Jonathan. For two reasons. English is his native tongue - so even after a thousand years, we'll probably be better able to communicate with him than with some of the others. And he'd only been Immortal for a few months before he came into the Sanctuary - so he may be better able to relate to mortals, understand our concerns, than any of the others."

Matthew was quick to protest. "She just wants to see Poole conscious! I swear, she has some kind of crush on him!"

"I do not!"

But whether or not she had a "crush," she knew she _did_ want to see him conscious.

Lundquist was frowning. He let the group babble for a few minutes, suggesting other names. Then he raised a hand.

"I've decided it will have to be Poole. For the reasons Megan mentioned - and others.

"All these Immortals came into the Sanctuary of their own free will. They knew it was a permanent commitment. But still, if one of them sees how different our clothes and speech are, and realizes centuries must have passed, he might change his mind and want to leave. God knows how the Tribunal would handle that! But instead of waiting to find out, he might just attack us.

"Or they may have been affected, somehow, by not having taken Quickenings in that length of time. We don't understand their kind that well - a thousand-year abstinence may have driven them insane.

"So the _safest_ one to revive is the 'young' one we know had no extraordinary 'powers.' Poole."

Those arguments had a sobering effect on everyone. They all nodded agreement...and fell into step behind Lundquist, wordlessly, as he left the chapel and stalked toward the elevator.

x

x

x

In the underground facility, Lundquist had to make several phone calls to arrange for purchase of the drug. Two Watchers were sent to pick it up. As they'd expected, a long drive would be required, even assuming they didn't encounter any problems - and that was by no means certain, when they weren't dealing with their usual supplier.

Then more time was wasted debating _where_ the others should revive Poole. The Immortals' reclining frames no longer looked like instruments of torture, and none of their "guests" appeared to be uncomfortable. Matthew thought Jonathan might accept what was happening more easily if he could see his "sleeping" mentor Talfryn. But Lundquist finally decided they should move him to the nearby bedroom Cadre members sometimes used when they needed a quick nap.

They disconnected all his tubing, carried him into the bedroom, and put him in bed - fully clothed, in the way they normally clothed the Immortals. "Not natural when someone's in bed," Lundquist admitted. "But he'll be more at ease this way, when he has to wake up among a bunch of strangers." They even put socks - though not shoes - on his feet.

Lundquist decided that only he, Matthew, and the three who'd been caring for Jonathan - a group that now included Gerard Roget, along with Megan and Jess - should stay at his bedside. The others, anxious as they were, would have to wait outside the room. (Megan wished he'd sent Matthew with them.)

Jonathan slept for another fifteen minutes before stirring, yawning, then slowly opening his eyes.

He saw the group gathered around him. Blinked twice - and then sat bolt upright. "Wh-what's befallen us? Where am I? _Talfryn! Where be Talfryn?_"

Predictably, Matthew muttered, "I told you so."

Lundquist put a hand on Jonathan's shoulder, and said quickly, "Everything's all right, Master Poole! Talfryn is sleeping peacefully, in another room. We needed to wake you - briefly - but not because anything is wrong. It'll just be for a few hours, and then we'll let you go back to sleep."

"Sleep?" Jonathan thrust the restraining hand off him. "Why should I wish to sleep?" His voice rose - though whether in anger or panic, it was hard to tell. "Who _are_ ye?"

"Jonathan!" Megan hoped he'd recognize her voice. "We're Watchers. You must have met some of us - other Watchers - before. Remember? And I've been talking to you, sometimes, while you slept."

That got his attention. "Y-yes. Methinks I have...heard thy voice before...mayhap in dreams..."

Their eyes met. And she knew, suddenly, that she wanted to help this man - in whatever way he needed.

She wasn't prepared for his saying, "Thou art...just as beautiful as thy voice."

She gulped. "You - _thou_ - thou art very handsome." Which was true.

Matthew made an impolite sound.

But Megan's beauty had only distracted Jonathan for a moment. He turned away, looked quizzically at each of the five mortals surrounding him. Focused, frowning, on Matthew.

_So Matthew must have had an especially unfriendly expression on his face, _Megan thought wryly._ Doesn't he always? Damn! _

"Where am I?" the frustrated Jonathan cried out again. Then he asked her, "Ye call yourselves 'watchers'? Watchers of _what?_"

"Of...of Immortals!" Could he possibly not have known that?

Suddenly, he let out a near-shriek. Grabbed her hand - violently.

"What be _this?_" he bellowed.

The tattoo he'd seen on her wrist.

"The insignia of our organization..."

He thrust her away from him. "The brigands who attacked us? Ye - all of ye - be like _them?_"

"_What?_ _'Brigands'?"_ Five horrified voices.

Jonathan lurched out of bed. Stumbled and fell, before anyone could grab him; while he might - in theory - be in peak physical condition, his legs hadn't seen use for a thousand years. But he struggled up again, pushing the Watchers away from him and yelling about "brigands."

As other members of the Cadre rushed into the room, Lundquist and Matthew overpowered him and forcibly sat him down on the bed.

"Listen to me," Lundquist said in a tight voice. "You've probably forgotten what happened. You and Talfryn agreed to go with...other members of our organization. To go into a protected Sanctuary, as some other Immortals were doing, so there could never be a 'Gathering' that would leave one survivor with the power of all..."

"This be madness!" Jonathan raged. "I heard nought of such a thing! We were _attacked_, outnumbered! By varlets wearing medallions with the same 'insignia' as yours!"

Megan gripped Lundquist's arm and said urgently, "Gary - what if Talfryn had agreed to enter the Sanctuary, but hadn't even mentioned it to Jonathan? And then, when the Watchers showed up sooner than he'd expected and seemed prepared to _abduct _Jonathan because of what he'd heard, Talfryn changed his own mind?"

Jonathan had understood that well enough that he howled an objection. "Talfryn would ne'er have gone anywhere with those scoundrels!

"His friend Corentin had told us, weeks before, that mortal brigands had attacked _him_. Some wore medallions with a device he'd ne'er seen before. He fought them off - that time. But a few days later, he disappeared.

"We thought they'd had some quarrel with him alone. But e'en so, Talfryn cast a Druidic spell to protect our house. And they faked a carriage accident to draw us out! We rushed out seeking to help, not taking weapons, and they set upon us and beat us insensible!"

By now all the Watchers were stunned, murmuring things like "Oh my God." The blood had drained from Lundquist's face. But he said weakly, "There's some misunderstanding. No Tribunal would ever have allowed what you're claiming -"

"A pox on all of ye!" Jonathan leapt to his feet again - and all at once, his hands were around Lundquist's throat. "Have ye let one of our kind, some villain, take Talfryn's head? Deemed mine not worth the taking? No, the head be not worth much - but these _hands_ be strong enough to rip _thy_ head from thy shoulders!"

"Jonathan!" Megan flung herself at him, clutched one of his arms. "Please, don't hurt him! I believe you - I think everyone else does, too. And no one's taken Talfryn's head! He's alive, and so is Corentin. I swear it!"

He looked at her. Hesitated, then loosened his grip on Lundquist...

In her peripheral vision, Megan saw Matthew moving toward...a lamp? Picking it up...why on earth was he interested in a lamp?

Then, just in time, she realized what he meant to do. Pulled Jonathan out of the way an instant before that lamp would have crashed into his head.

Jonathan roared. Struck out wildly at Matthew - knocking him down, but probably doing no serious damage - then headed for the door, pushing frightened Watchers aside. Megan and Jess trailed along, making no attempt to stop him.

When he found himself in a huge, dimly lit cavern, he paused in confusion. But then his expression changed, eyes widened.

Megan knew at once what had happened. _He's sensed the other Immortals!_

He started in that direction. But Watchers crowded around him again, blocking his way. And as Lundquist tried to reassert his authority, Gerard Roget caught Jonathan in a bear-hug. Said confidently, "I can restrain him, Gary. He still doesn't have his normal strength."

Megan looked into Gerard's eyes. And saw an urgency there. (Jess was looking his way, too.) He made an ever-so-slight movement of his head. In the direction _away_ from the other Immortals...

Both women got the message. They began vociferously arguing with Lundquist - and with Matthew, once again at his side. All four now "agreed" that Jonathan had to be held prisoner till they could drug him again...and then consult the Tribunal. But Megan and Jess were insisting he should be allowed to see Talfryn and Corentin. The two men opposed that, saying the sight of them as they were now would only make him more angry. All the others were caught up in the argument, paying close attention, and occasionally contributing their two cents' worth.

All but Gerard. Megan knew, without looking, that he was doing some fierce whispering into Jonathan's ear.

_Telling him he'll have to leave Talfryn for now, and let Gerard help him get the hell out of here._

When she heard the sound of the two men's pelting feet, she raised her voice in an attempt to cover it. But that only worked for a second. And Matthew hit her - hard, with his fist - before everyone ran after them.

x

x

x

Gerard and Jonathan were out of sight. When the first pursuers found that the elevator was now on the upper level, Lundquist said grimly, "Roget may just have paused for a second to _send_ it up - I'm guessing they took the tunnel. Anyway, that's where I'm going. Not waiting for the damn elevator!"

And off they went, racing through the eerie tunnel that led outside the Sanctuary grounds.

Megan, running with the others, scarcely dared to hope. _I couldn't get them much lead time. I'm sure they did come this way. And Jonathan really can't be at full strength now, not for a long run. The poor man doesn't even have shoes on!_

She wondered why she wasn't seeing Matthew...

As she'd feared, they caught up with the fleeing pair not far beyond the tunnel. Gerard was half-supporting an exhausted Jonathan. But both men kicked, clawed, and spat at the Watchers who ultimately subdued them.

The group prepared to drag their quarry back to the Sanctuary. Megan and Jess, at this point, were being treated almost as roughly as the captives.

But when Megan thought the situation couldn't get any worse, it did. A voice called out, "Wait!"

_Matthew_, coming on the run. And now Megan saw why he'd been delayed. He'd stopped to get something from a storeroom.

_Oh God, no._

A sword.

At the sight of that, all the Watchers began to scream.

Lundquist lunged at Matthew, and briefly restrained him. "_No_, Matthew! For God's sake, we can't behead him! Holy ground -"

"We're outside the Sanctuary property, if you haven't noticed! _Off_ holy ground. And besides, if holy ground matters at all, it's only _Quickenings_ on holy ground that are dangerous. There's no Quickening when a mortal takes an Immortal's head!"

The Watcher Chronicles told that in earlier eras, when execution by beheading was more common, many known Immortals had met that fate. Their final deaths had been like anyone else's.

"If there's another Immortal nearby, there's a Quickening that goes into _him_," Lundquist argued. "And we don't know the range. The ones back in the Sanctuary may be close enough. Having a Quickening go into one of them - or more than one! - would be disastrous!"

"Ridiculous! The 'range'? Poole couldn't even sense them while he was in that bedroom!"

Megan screamed, "Forget Quickenings! Don't you give a damn that what you're talking about is _murder?_"

Someone else called out, "She's right, Gary. An hour ago, you weren't even willing to 'kill' an Immortal temporarily - and painlessly. Now you'll consider _beheading?_"

Another voice suggested, "All we have to do is drug this guy and pop him back into the Sanctuary. It's unpleasant, sure. Makes us...wonder. About a lot of things. But we can go on as always, the Sanctuary serving its purpose."

"No, we can't!" Matthew had pushed a trembling Lundquist away from him. Brandishing the sword, he spat out, "If we 'pop him back into the Sanctuary,' his _friends_ will try to help him escape again! _And_ maybe try to find out whether others want to be 'freed.'

"There's only one way to keep Poole's _friends_ in line. Finish him off, so they'll see we mean business. So they'll know what will happen to anyone else they might try to 'free'!"

A gray-faced Lundquist said dully, "Matthew's right. We have to do it now, set an example. Like I said before, Poole's the least dangerous of the ten of them."

At that point, Megan's - and several others' - screams were drowned out by a howl of pure outrage from Jonathan.

He had by now had time to recover from the exertion of his run. Breaking free of the two men holding him, he raced to the nearest tree, broke off a low-hanging branch for use as a weapon, and charged Matthew - just as the sword-wielding Matthew was charging him.

Megan knew she'd always remember the twisted smile that appeared for a moment on Jonathan's face. The words she heard him cry out, that sounded, for some reason, like a taunt. _"Hatest thou all Immortals?"_

As the men fought - Jonathan hampered by the poor quality of his "weapon," Matthew by his unfamiliarity with his - Megan was sure Jonathan meant to _kill_ Matthew. Back in the Sanctuary, she'd known his threat to rip Lundquist's head off with his bare hands was mere bluster. Young as he was, he'd almost certainly never killed anyone, mortal or Immortal. She'd sensed that he'd be as reluctant as she herself would be to actually do such a thing.

There was no reluctance now. He tried, repeatedly, to thrust his makeshift spear into Matthew's chest. Aiming for the heart.

And he might have succeeded. But the other Watchers, who'd initially frozen in shock, saw what was happening as clearly as Megan did. A half-dozen men flung themselves into the fray. Seized Jonathan, disarmed him, held him immobile.

Panting, he looked up at Matthew. And said: _"Proud of thyself?"_

Matthew swung the sword with all his strength.

x

x

x

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn't.

It was bad enough that Jonathan's head rolled to Lundquist's feet. A mute reminder that he, the person in charge, bore the ultimate responsibility for this atrocity.

But then, before anyone could move, they felt a strange electricity in the air. Jonathan's headless corpse began to vibrate. To _convulse_.

Crackling sounds. A sudden wind.

And then came the lightning. _Furious_ lightning, not descending from the heavens, but rising from the corpse!

As the shrieking Watchers scattered, the lightning seemed to pursue them. Snaking _around_ every one - save Jonathan's three "friends." Teasing them, terrorizing them.

But actually _striking_...no one.

The lightning ricocheted off trees and rocks. Off Jonathan's "spear." Off the sword Matthew had dropped.

But it never extended toward the Sanctuary. Not through the air, or through the tunnel.

In the end, it simply dissipated. A Quickening that went into no one.

x

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x

Brian Kirk said nervously, "Th-that _can't_ have happened!"

Lundquist had managed to pull himself together. He was still pale, but his voice was steady as he said, "It may have happened because so _many_ Immortals were fairly nearby, even though they weren't close enough for the Quickening to reach them."

"Right," Matthew agreed. "All that matters is that it _didn't_ reach them."

Megan knew it would be safer to keep her mouth shut, but she couldn't. "Maybe it happened because the crime committed here was so appalling! The Watcher Oath forbids 'interfering with' Immortals. The Sanctuary has been 'interfering' all along, in a worse way than we knew. And when you learned an Immortal had been held against his will for a thousand years, instead of trying to make it right, you murdered him!"

Matthew took a step toward her, hand raised to strike.

She braced herself.

Lundquist pulled him back.

But then Lundquist said, in a voice that chilled her to the bone, _"Not here."_

x

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x

The letter concluded, _"I'm still mourning the waste of the wonderful Immortal Jonathan Poole could have been. A thousand years of life stolen from him - from everyone whose life he would have touched! I'm sure you would have liked him, Adam._

_"They've buried him, of course. And they had to tell the Tribunal part of the truth - couldn't have gotten away with pretending, for long, that they still had ten Immortals here._

_"But they weren't sure how the Tribunal would react, so they didn't tell the whole truth. They explained why we had to revive Jonathan, but everything else was a lie. They never admitted he, or anyone else, had been forced into the Sanctuary. Instead, they said he'd become insane - probably an unintended effect of the thousand years' unconsciousness. They claimed it was he who'd gotten a sword from the storeroom, and attacked Matthew. Said Matthew wrested the sword from him and killed him in self-defense, when he'd been backed into a position where he couldn't do anything else._

_"Adam, they really believe there's some mystical reason why the Sanctuary needs ten Immortals! Instead of doing away with it, now that they know the truth - all our "guests" probably here unwillingly - they're planning to find a "replacement" for Jonathan. Maybe they'll identify some depressed Immortal who'll buy into the story of its always having been voluntary, and come on his own. But if they can't do that, every Immortal faces the risk of being abducted, and condemned to this...burial alive._

_"I'll try to get to the Tribunal and tell them the whole story. But at this point, I don't trust them, either! So if I can't make it, I don't want __**you**__ to risk telling them._

_"I just want you to __**know.**_

_"Love,_

_"Megan"_

x

x

x

Methos had succeeded in not crying. But he wasn't surprised by the tears he saw in the priest's eyes.

"Why did she think it so important to tell you, Methos?" Darius asked softly. "Do you think she knew what you are...even _who_ you are?"

Methos shook his head. "I've been asking myself that. But I'll never be sure. While we were together, I didn't think she'd guessed anything. She did know I'm in charge of the Watchers' _search_ for Methos - she may just have thought that in case I should ever find him, she'd want me to be able to warn him.

"But now I hope she had guessed the truth. Knew that was the only reason I hadn't been willing to marry her - because sooner or later I'll have to move on, to hide my not aging."

After a moment's silence, Darius said, "About that Quickening..."

Methos grimaced. "Yes, the Quickening. The Quickening that erupted and went into no one, for a reason the Watchers didn't understand - that there was a _pre-Immortal_ on the scene.

"The letter didn't surprise me. I'd already met the bastard - hey, I now know he _is_ a bastard, literally! - at Megan's funeral. _Matthew Hale_."

"Of course," Darius reflected. "Poole realized it! That was why he snarled at Hale, 'Hatest thou all Immortals?' - and then tried to spite him by giving him his first death, in front of everyone!"

"I wish he'd succeeded," Methos said grimly. "_I_ don't intend to give Hale his first death, though. I'll let someone else do that - so I can give him his second. A 'second' that will be his _last_."

Darius didn't voice any objection.

After another brief silence, Methos said, "I came in part to warn you, of course..."

"Yes, I know. Thank you. But I've been having dreams...my future may not be pleasant, but I'm sure it doesn't include the Sanctuary."

"I'm glad of that." Methos cleared his throat. "About your dreams...I'm sure you're remembering the _first_ time they led you to save me. When you knew we were both in some kind of danger, but you weren't sure what it was..."

"And you came within inches of taking my head, before I somehow convinced you I was really a priest." Darius was smiling at the memory. "Yes, I get the connection. _The year_ _was 990_."

Methos nodded. "Yes. Those dreams your dead mentor Ludovic sends you saved both of us from being dragged off to the Sanctuary.

"There's something else you should know. After I learned Megan had died - before I left for her funeral - I did some major research. Hunted up records no Watcher had looked at for hundreds of years. I hope I found and destroyed every mention of this, but I can't be sure.

"The Watchers didn't trap ten Immortals in the Sanctuary because they saw mystical significance in the number ten! That was the number they had to settle for.

"The number they thought was crucial was _twelve_. Twelve months in the year, twelve signs in the Zodiac, twelve legendary tribes of Israel, twelve Apostles of Jesus.

"They settled for ten - temporarily, as they thought - because they meant to keep trying, for as long as necessary, to snare the specific two Immortals they still wanted.

"You and me."

x

x

x

The End


End file.
